Iconic
by nic73
Summary: How it all started and how it ended. Story of Red John. My final entry for the Reverse Big Bang. There are four chapters - complete.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he saw the smiley face he was three. It's his earliest memory. He pictures his parents doing the Christmas shopping. The delight on his Mother's face when she found the box of crayons with a smiley face drawn on each colour. When they wrapped the box up and placed it at the bottom of his stocking, they had no idea what they were helping to create. When the hectic routines that took place every Christmas morning, had quieted down, he had sat on his bed with a colouring book on his lap. He took his new box of crayons and poured out all the colours on to his quilt. He picked each one up and studied the smiley faces. He's fascinated how each colour gave the face a different feel. The white he imagined as a ghost. The blue seemed cold and unfeeling, the pink, girly, the yellow, sunny and cheesy. It was the red one that caught his attention. It made him shiver and his instinct was to bury his head under the covers, until, he reminded himself that it was only a crayon. He found himself laying the crayon aside. He didn't want to use it. To risk breaking the crayon, or tearing the face. As he coloured he would sneak looks at it. He felt excitement form, as butterflies, at the bottom of his stomach. He couldn't escape the feeling that something important had just happened in his life. When he finished colouring he put all the crayons back in the box. All except one. The red one was carefully placed in his treasure trove box, along side a cat's claw he'd found during a walk in the woods with his dad and a glass stone he found at the beach.

At the age of seven he realised he was searching out the smiley face. No that's wrong, he wasn't searching it out, it was finding him. It would appear before him all the time. The eyes following him until he was out of it's sight. He was disappointed to find that most of the time it was a yellow smiley face. But then he decided it made his red one special. He found a football with a red smiley face, he imagined throwing it and the face blurring as it spun in the air. He imagined his dad throwing it to him and the face coming clearer as the rotations slowed down as it reached his hands. but he couldn't buy it. it was too much money. He saved his allowance for a month but when he went back to the shop it was gone. The owner said they wouldn't be getting anymore. He'd been so angry. He'd never felt that angry in his life before. Later when people talked about seeing red before their eyes, he would always remember this day. By the end of the day there was blood on his hands. He was fascinated as he watched the life drain from the eyes of his beloved hamster. As the blood ebbed away he felt his anger flow with it. He laid on his bed unable to sleep, reliving the feel of the knife cutting through the flesh and the sight of the blood welling up and dripping on to the newspaper that was laid beneath the hamster. He dipped his finger in to it, bringing it to his nose he inhaled deeply, the scent seemed to flow through his veins. He tasted it.

At ten he received his best present ever! He didn't think that his crayon could be beaten. He had come out of his bedroom to find a black bike in the living room. Much bigger than the one he's had since he was seven. He then opened a new baseball glove. His dad talked about oiling it together. Softening the leather so it fit in to his hand like a second skin. He received his own encyclopedia set, he loving looking at each one and imagined the exciting wonders of the world that awaited within. Then his Mother handed him a long tube. He tore off the paper and opened the lid at the end. He peered in and gently pulled out the poster inside. Opening it up, there was the most beautiful sight. It out stripped any work of art, produced anywhere in the world. It was a giant smiley face on a red background. He couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. He jumped up, asking his mom for tape. She laughingly found it in the draw and handed it to him. He raced down the hall to his bedroom, the words of his dad following after him, of how they could have left all the other things in the shops. He chose carefully the place on the wall. At the bottom of his bed was the best place, it would be the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing at night. He sat up against the headboard and looked at the poster. The face painted on the side of red wall. behind it a wood, tall trees looming up through the darkness. The atmosphere at odds with the smile. He loved it , it reminded him of himself.


	2. Chapter 2

At 14 he met Orville Tanner. When he first saw him in the playground, Tanner's first day at his new school. He knew that they were meant to meet and be together. Something inside of him, told him they had a destiny together. Tanner didn't look like much, as ugly as sin, thin and wiry, with clothes that were older than he was. Tanner was a couple of years older than him but, he overlooked all that because he couldn't and wouldn't fight destiny. Normally the most popular boys would shun such an offering but he knew that he would get them on his side, . He can get people to do anything. He went over to him and introduced himself. At first Tanner was fearful, certain that he was there to do mischief. But the reluctance didn't last long, Tanner needed friends and he was the friend to have.

Tanner was so grateful to him that he would do anything for him. First he had Orville be his servant, running errands and all the other menial labor he shouldn't be doing. He noticed in Tanner a kindred spirit and took him out into the woods one night and talked about dark thoughts and impulses. Tanner confessed to desires to mutilate animals but not having the nerve. He showed Tanner where the bones and rotting flesh were buried. Then, where he kept the cages of his victims as he slowly tortured them. They would sit in the hideout and talk while animals suffered around them. One night he casually flicked through a book of poems that was part of Tanner's homework. One caught his eye and by the end of the week he had it memorized. Soon together they worked on the animals, the depravity increasing. Then talk and fantasy moved on to something else, something bigger, more challenging, more exciting.

The day his parents died was a revelation to him. He knew he loved them. They'd only ever been good to him, proud of him, showering him with love and praise. They believed every word he said of where he had been, what he was doing. Never questioning his long absences, from home, always believing their boy was doing good. He'd never given them any cause for concern, never been in trouble at school or elsewhere, his desires, his longings he kept under control, hidden away from prying eyes, shared only with Tanner. He expected to feel the devastation that he's seen his neighbour, Paul, exhibit when his Mother had died. But he felt nothing, nothing for his loss, nothing for the man who had killed them in the accident. Nothing but anger, that his life was to change, he had to move out of his home, he didn't want to go away. He left everything behind, just taking his poster and his treasure box. His future brightened when Tanner, who had left school and taken a job at the local garage, offered him a place at his apartment, consisting of one room and a bedroom. He stayed until he'd graduated and then moved on to greener pastures.

The men running the farm were idiots. They knew nothing about planting crops and irrigation, They wouldn't listen to him, they just saw him as a young drone. But the place was serving a purpose. He saw an organization that would be beneficial to him. It was a place full of followers and he's certain that he can find someone like Tanner. He missed the adoration, having someone who will do whatever he asks of him, some one to praise him, someone who has the same desires, that can become his pupil. In fact, he can probably find more. He sits on his bed, with his poster unrolled in his hand. Looking at it empowers him, he feels an energy soaring through his blood. He needs to look at getting away from the farm, moving up in the organization, finding better specimens than are in this place. Outside he finds a tin of paint, used to paint the storage shed. He hated mess, things need to be put away, keeping order. He picks it up and absentmindedly stirs the paint. He passes the barn. He looks at the empty wall of the building, a thought strikes him. He's going to leave something that tells the world he was here. He will be someone, some day, and it starts now. He didn't think about what he was going to do, he just took the brush and paints. When he steps back to examine his work, he's not surprised at what he sees, what else would he paint. The paint is wet and gravity pulls it down, but he likes it, it makes it look like it's painted with blood. He rushes back in to his room, he takes his poster and tears it up. The smiley face should always be red and should always be painted in blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes: I would like to give a big thank you to my two guest reviewers is was sooooo good to hear that someone liked it...and a big thank you to my two followers. Well I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
**

It feels great to be teamed with Tanner once more. He's missed the man. That's not exactly true, he's missed the adulation and the sharing of dark thoughts. He 's pleased to find that he hasn't changed in anyway, since he's been gone, unlike himself. He'd learned the power of an idea, a philosopy, that can have people hanging on your every word and willing to follow you to the ends of the earth. He'd spent the past couple of years watching the process. Styles is good but he knows he can do better. He won't get people just to follow and worship him and do small acts of rebellion, no, for him, people will kill, in horrible ways, and be willing to accept their own death, that his 'purpose' is greater than their lives. He won't just appeal to the downtrodden, the desperate, the weak-willed. His followers will be people at the top of their field, holding positions of power that he can use to further his own interest and protect himself. He, himself, will be a functioning member of society, not a cult leader held in derision by most of society. He knows it's going to take time, finding the right people, putting them in the right places, but he's a patient man.

The one thing he isn't patient about is he need to kill. He wants to feel the thrill of cutting into flesh and watching blood spill, and life draining from the eyes along with fear, the smell of it, the look of it. Things that animals just couldn't give him. He fantasizes about it. Will he let them scream, is it worth the risk, or will he gag them, a handkerchief balled up in the mouth would be ideal. He would watch them struggle against it, choke against it, as the pain and fear causes their saliva to increase, to soak the gag, and make it slip down their throat, then they would fight for air. It would be by his pleasure whether he allowed them to breathe or not and then he would make them beg for death. It will be women, definitely woman, easier to control and to terrorize. Plus their flesh is much softer and pleasing. When he's thought it all through and is certain of success and non detection he presents his plan to Tanner.

The place is in darkness. He has chosen well, there are no neighbours to disturb them. The light went out two hours ago, plenty of time to be in a deep slumber. They exit the van, which is hidden from view of the road, just in case, someone is out at this hour, and walk down to the house. The grass is quiet under their feet, the lock is easy to pick and they slip on the shoe covers as they enter the house. He looks around with the satisfaction at the cleanliness of the place, his expectation rises that the bedroom is the same way. A clean palate on which to create his artistry. The house is a two storey and they tread softly up the stairs, checking each step for creaks before putting their full weight upon it.

He feels his senses heighten, he can hear her soft breath through the bedroom wall, he can smell her blood, just like the vampires in the comic books. But he isn't a vampire, he isn't killing to stay alive, he's killing to be alive! He's at the door, he takes the time to slow his breathing as anticipation raises his heart rate. He glances back at Tanner, as he places his hand on the door knob. Tanner is sweating and wide-eyed. He begins to regret bringing him along, but it's too late now. The knob slowly turns beneath his hand, it opens without making a sound. She takes good care of her place. The room is in total darkness, this far from the road it doesn't share in the street glow, but his eyes have had plenty of time to adjust as he made his way through the house. He takes a moment to stare at the sleeping form. She makes a small lump under the covers, so still and unaware. Soon she'll be under his control, her life at his mercy. He pulls the taser out of his right pocket, checks that Tanner has the duct tape, ready and moves towards the bed. The sound of electricity fills the room, she wakes with a start, eyes filled with confusion as she tries to make sense of why her nerves have turned to jelly. Then terror takes it's place as she realizes she's not alone. He grabs her face and shoves the handkerchief into her mouth, Tanner secures it with duct tape, then straps her hands to the bed rail. He straddles her so he can look her in the eye. It's better than he ever imagined. He feels her body squirming under him as she twists in panic, trying to get away. He presses down on her. He produces the knife. He chose it carefully. It's small enough to fit in his pocket and the curved blade will leave a distinct pattern as it does maximum damage. An identifying mark of his conquests, as he's certain she is only the first. She stills at the sight of the knife, her eyes begin to plead with the fear. He slowly traces it down her face, careful that it doesn't nick the skin, he doesn't want to mar her beauty. tears fall upon the blade, he brings it to his mouth and licks them off. He smiles at his victim. His eyes move to her body and he slices open her nightgown. As the material falls away he sees that she wears nothing underneath. The blade caresses her skin. He can feel her tension underneath him, aware of each shudder at each intimate touch of the instrument. He brings it back up to her throat. He looks in to her eyes, she is almost catatonic, fear oozes from her, he smiles gently and applies pressure. He feels the knife break skin. He shifts from the eyes and watches the blood well up around the blade. He presses harder and pulls the blade down slow and deliberate. Her back arches with the pain. He shifts back to avoid the blood as it bubble out of the wound. His gaze moves once more to her face. It's contorted with pain and terror and even more beautiful. He, almost absentmindedly, makes the marks across her body that he has practised over and over again until he had them memorized. He concentrates on her eyes as life begins to dim. Her struggles have come to an end. she awaits death now. An idea comes to him, one of such beauty he can hardly contain his joy. He carefully climbs off his victim and looks around the room. Deciding on a place he looks at his hand. How he wishes he didn't have to wear the gloves, but that would just be reckless, and he has every intention of replicating this again. he dips his fingers in her blood, making sure they are well covered. He moves to the wall across from the door and paints his beloved face. This is what people will see when they enter one of his crime scenes. This will tell everyone who's work it is and what horrors to expect. After admiring his crowning glory he moves back to the bed. The woman's breaths are shallow and soft. He gently strokes the hair off her face and says his first words.

"It's finished."

He draws the blade deep across her neck, and the light is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's notes: a big big big thank you to Mossib and MartyMac49 for your support for this project.**

He's boiling with rage. How can that trumped up fraud dare say disparaging things about him. Patrick Jane is drinking his own kool aid. Jane thinks he's high and mighty, with his shiny suits, big house, beautiful wife and daughter. Where, in fact, he's a little worm I can squash with my heel. He's no idea who he's messing with. I'm no regular serial killer. He can no more know me, than he can catch me. He needs showing the error of his ways. There's a price to pay when you mess with greatness and Patrick Jane is going to discover how high that price can be.

Tanner did something stupid and was arrested for the first murder. They must have thought it was case solved, but then it happened again and they soon found out their nightmare was just beginning. I've honed my skills, I know what I like. No gag, the screams are exciting, it means I usually can't take a lot of time, but, it's worth it.

It's delicious. The killing of Jane's family was exhilarating. With every slice I imagined Patrick Jane's destruction. And what a slippery slope it's been. Being a celebrity, someone got there hands on his 911 call. He could hardly speak because of disbelief and horror at the scene that greeted him. It was as if Jane said it out loud, it made it true. But nothing could change that this was his new reality and it was all his fault. They kept it hidden from the public, in respect for his loss, but it wasn't hidden from me. Jane tried suicide and is now locked away in a secure facility, I'm almost rubbing my hands together with glee, thinking of the 'Great' Patrick Jane in a straight jacket and a padded room. Better than I ever expected.

Life just keeps getting better and better, Jane is hunting me. He pulled himself together, gained his release from the facility and went straight in to the arms of the CBI. Maybe there are some lessons Jane has yet to learn. To think that he could ever outsmart the greatest serial killer ever known. Jane has no idea what he's up against. The contacts I have in place, my people are everywhere. It's going to be so much fun. It must be done slowly, let Jane think he's close, that he has a chance, and then teach him how powerful I am.

I thought that nothing could compare with the thrill of the kill, the drawing of my beautiful smiley face on the wall in their blood. But something more beautiful came along, something more fitting of my talents. There have been many serial killers, history's littered with them, but none like me. Until Patrick Jane came along I wondered how I was going to show the world my greatness. Many serial killers have gone undetected by the police but they haven't had to beat a mind like Patrick's. I call him Patrick now. I met him once, he was strapped to a chair at my mercy. I could have killed him, I wanted to the year before, but the game changed. He was taken off the case, and it was given to someone less worthy, and I missed him. Where was the fun, the challenge. The fool didn't know me, not like Patrick knows me. The fool didn't want me, not like Patrick wants me. There are many games for us to play, so I saved his life, and though he was at my mercy, I only left him with a message and a torment. He looked at me with venom in his eyes, dark, threatening and thrilling.

The game is at an end. He was too close to learning my identity. His mind is very good, maybe even better than mine, but he's not as ruthless as he likes to think he is. He lies at my feet, blood covering his tattered three-piece suit he wore so beautifully. I knew he would die well. There was no begging, no useless threats. He refused to speak at all, which was disappointing, though understandable. All that escaped his lips were groans as my knife tore into his flesh. In honor of the talents of my opponent I didn't draw my trademark while he was still alive and aware. No need, he knew who I was. I thrust my hand into his stomach, . I draw the face and stand back. It stares back at me mockingly. There's no satisfaction, no feeling of accomplishment, only sadness. I realise that Patrick Jane had become my reason for existing. Now he's gone and I am left without a purpose. I can't go back. Nothing will ever be enough. The awareness surprises me, but also doesn't. I look down again at my reason for being and smile through tears.

"You won after all Patrick"

I remove my gloves and. take more blood, it's warm as it covers my fingers. I draw another face, one of sorrow. I lay down beside him and draw my knife deep across my wrists. I watch my blood mingle with Patrick's and feel at peace.


End file.
